Anamaria
by erynis
Summary: Just a short story attempting to fill in the gaps of Anamaria's mysterious life before and after she met Jack. Short paragraph summary inside.


**ANAMARIA**

**So now I sit on this deserted beach, ship-wrecked, forced to contemplate my life; where I went wrong, what I did right. So far, both my failures and successes can be summed up in two words: Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow is one of the main causes for my current concern, and was also one of the contributing factors in many of my previous predicaments. When I was a young, naïve twenty year old; a frightened, recently escaped freed-slave, Captain Jack Sparrow – at that time formerly first-mate of the Black Pearl – stole my boat. He may have also stolen my heart along with it. Two years later, he has still not returned either.**

_I sit here, on the baking sand, my palms being warmed by the Caribbean sun as beads of golden sand trickle through my fingers, and my toes lightly massaged by the lapping sea-water. I gaze out – squinting slightly in the glare of the sun reflecting off the sparkling peaks of the gentle aquamarine waves. I see the waving palm trees, so deceptively contented with their life, conveying a feeling of ease; completely at peace with their situation and lot in life. I, on the other hand, am not so calm, content or collected. You see, scattered around this wonderfully carefree island retreat is the remanets of my ship, my cherished Maverick. The pleasure of this little isolated haven is marred by the knowledge that in a few short – but incredibly long and painful - days I am doomed for death as surely as any pirate with a hangman's noose knotted firmly around their neck. Except, perhaps, if that pirate were Captain Jack Sparrow. That man could escape from the clutches of the devil himself. A feat he has no doubt achieved, countless times over. I swear he gets better with practice. Sparrow has been marooned more times than I can count, but this is my first, and undoubtedly my last shipwreck. I remain calm and realistic in the knowledge no-one will come for me; no-one will pluck me off this desolate speck of sand. I harbour no false illusions of hope. _

_Jack, on the other hand, spent his isolation sentence in a half-drunken stupor. He lands himself on a deserted island containing a cachet of rum, on a well known trading route. What does my island have in abundance? Sandflies. Jack was always too sure of himself for his own good, but Lady Luck was his mistress, and did she ever smile upon him. His good fortune and laid-back lifestyle could almost be described as intolerable. Almost. Jack Sparrow is too handsome, charismatic and intriguing to be described as 'intolerable.' One crooked smile from his roguish face - complete with gleaming golden teeth - one glance from his solemn, dark brooding chocolate eyes, and it would more than make up for any slight he had inflicted upon you. Most of the time. Heaven knows, he deserves a good slap around that handsome face of his occasionally. For a good few years, it was my sole aim in life to provide that good, occasional slap. I chased him around the Caribbean purely so I could slap that smug, arrogant, charming face of his. Actually, thinking about it now, it still is my sole aim. If I ever get off this island it'll be the first thing I do… No, best not to think like that; best not to foster any feelings of false hope. Sparrow is the only soul in this earth blessed and determined enough to escape from imminent doom, when others would count themselves marked for a meeting with the Devil... _

_But I am starting towards the completion of my life, and that is not how you tell a good story. I can read only little, and write less than that, but I have heard enough legends and myths to know how to tell a first-class story. And my story is certainly that. So I shall start from the beginning, as most stories do, but my ending is still being written. Although I think it fair to say my ending will not come as a surprise. The start of my existence, I do not recall. It was not important how I was given life, but rather, what I did with my life after that that truly matters. One does not write what may have been – a wish, a hope, a desire - but only documents what has befallen. _

_My name is Anamaria. Just 'Anamaria'. Nothing further. I had other names, some I once cherished, others I loathed. But 'Anamaria' has always been my first name, the name that saw me through all of my 22 years. I find it very fitting. It's coarse and harsh, like me, but when it's said by certain people – when you highlight the 'a's - it becomes so much more memorable; like me. Overlooked at first, but there's something there, something intangible that makes me unforgettable to some. _

_At age six, I was the revered daughter of a tribal chief and respected temple priestess in unknown and unexplored Africa, a living goddess in my own right. At age 14 I was a simple slave girl, a 'purchase' from slave traders, barely alive and barely willing to live. By age 20 I had escaped, and saved enough for my first ship - a half-leaking boat really – but it signified something. It represented my final freedom, my new-found success and new lease of life, no matter how unstable or shaky. I was nobody's property any longer, I had my own possession; I was Somebody. The night following the day that I bought my boat, I ran into a certain Jack Sparrow. _

_At 21, I finally escaped his clutches, determined on mapping out the own course of my life; sick of depending on Jack for safety and security. Perhaps you do not understand; I had to prove myself as my own person, before I could consider being tied in any way to someone else, either emotionally, mentally or physically. In other words, we had a falling out. I cannot remember what the fight was about; probably my recklessness. He worries about me, in his own little way, worried that I'll fall into the wrong hands. 'Not everyone's intentions as a pirate are as honourable as mine, luv' he used to joke, half serious. I would argue back he was just as impulsive and devil-may-care. This argument ended very physically, but I got in the last punch. A fat lot of good it does me now, because Karma certainly caught up with me on that. Me, Anamaria, the supposed victor of that argument sits stranded on a beach, while Jack is free to do as he pleases. Perhaps the Gods were trying to tell me Jack was right, and I was wrong. Some message. So all that is left, all that I own now is time, and memories. So I sit and dwell on them. _


End file.
